The rise of creative, original content that is seemingly beginning to reflect the demographics of the audience through casting has led many people to think about diversity in Hollywood. Shows like FX’s Atlanta, HBO’s Insecure, Netflix’s Orange is the New Black, and Amazon’s Transparent, among many others, showcase content that not only casts diverse actors, but also develop the characters and plotlines beyond stereotyped, typecast roles. But how far does diversity in entertainment really go? And does our definition of it have to change as content changes?

The answer to these questions lies in advertising. Corporations paying for an audience’s attention through advertisements has traditionally been the backbone of television content. However, if the advertisements being played don’t match the message of the content, or alternatively, the ads stereotypically link to the viewers who are believed to be watching a show, then can real change be made? I watched an episode of Atlanta, ashow that has made an effort to showcase African American talent, without being marketed as a “black” show but rather entertainment about life, relationships, and self identity, narrated and carefully pointing toward some of the larger cultural issues and social divisions in America. I paid specific attention to the advertisements being played as I streamed the content online. I found that while Atlanta itself makes a commitment to cast diverse actors and an all African American writing team, the commercials mostly reflected white couples, other TV shows and movies featuring white male leads, or ads that showed “ethnically ambiguous” models that attempt to market toward the largest possible audience.

So what does this mean, then, for your identity as a consumer of entertainment and your identity as a consumer of goods—the latter the arguably more powerful identity in today’s world? If narrative and shows themselves are meant to reflect truths in ourselves and our situations in life, then shouldn’t the most powerful kind of identity we create for ourselves, in an increasingly social and curated world of images, match the kinds of narratives being created? Advertising’s constant desire to appeal to certain markets defines the types of people attracted to and deflected from a show, arguably as much as the content of the show itself.

This also doesn’t mean that streaming services or subscription-based models are exempt from the considerations of diversity in advertising. In fact, advertising models in these services, like subtle brand placement or targeted advertising from web data, have the potential to separate even further the kinds of entertainment we are exposed to. If we can’t see how advertisements are working on us or how corporations are trying to sell and appeal to demographics, then we can’t see how the precarious relationship between brands and content is leaving certain audiences out and drawing others in. What happens, then, if the corporations themselves become the sole producers of content and networks eventually cease to exist?

The biggest problem lies in the ways in which corporations speak about diversity. Showing minorities in advertisements and on television is often spoken about in terms of appealing to a larger market. Reports like those from Nielsen outline how African Americans are more aggressive consumers of media and bigger consumers of products. For brands and advertisers, diversity has to be spoken about in terms of commodification in order to be relevant. First off, numbers like these don’t account for the larger social, historic, and economic climate that creates data like this. Second, this kind of language explains the tokenism of minorities on television. GLAAD’s report on diversity for television for 2016–2017 reflects this. Although LGBTQ characters and characters of color were represented, they were disproportionately killed off or put in non-speaking roles. If we talk about identity in economic terms, a niche and artificial creation of content and advertising will be put forth. Could an increase in dramatic performances of racial identity, not intended to subvert but rather to uphold systemic beliefs, create a more niche, commodified, artificial package of comfortable diversity? It’s more important than ever to address these issues from within the accessible arena of entertainment and to begin thinking about not only what is shown on screen, but the language we use to create it.

In 2009 the New Museum in New York presented “It Is What It Is: Conversations About Iraq,” a commission by British Artist Jeremy Deller. I left the museum with quiet tears streaming down my face, deeply moved by the experience. Deller placed a living room setup in the middle of the floor and curated a group of veterans, journalists, scholars, and Iraqi nationals to have an unrestrained open dialogue with the visitors. I sat alone with Nour al-Khal, who worked as a translator in Basra and survived journalist Steven Vincent in 2005 when they were abducted, beaten, and shot by armed men.

No one knows for sure what will be the next great development in storytelling technology, but many are placing their bets on virtual reality. Since the Oculus Rift launched on Kickstarter in 2012, dozens of VR-related startups have emerged, creating everything from VR treadmills to documentaries.

Want to go to the Soho Apple Store? The Ralph Lauren and Dior stores? Sure you do. Like many streets in Manhattan, Greene Street has a long history—one that has changed with each quarter century. And Greene Street was not always the shopping mecca that it is today. As the interactive web documentary A Long History of a Short Block demonstrates, the street, like Manhattan itself, has played host to a wide range of infrastructure, communities, businesses, and people.

What if I told you that the “future” of storytelling the way people often think about it—Twitter and blogging and Internet-centricity—isn’t really the future at all? What if all of these “new” developments in storytelling are actually references to 100 years ago?

In November 2014, a scandal erupted around Mexican president Enrique Peña Nieto after the media discovered that his enormous family mansion was actually owned by a construction company to which the government had recently awarded a multibillion-dollar contract. The mansion’s ownership raised suspicions of a quid pro quo agreement between Nieto and the construction company. In a country fraught with crime and violence, Nieto’s house—often referred to as the Casa Blanca—for many became a symbol of government corruption.

Back in 2008, Colin Northway designed a flash game that was wildly addictive called Fantastic Contraption. With the simple goal of delivering a red orb from one side of the map to the other, players used different moving or static parts to construct their delivery device. It was the simplicity that inspired seemingly infinite solutions to each challenge—real feats of engineering and armchair ingenuity, like elaborate cranes and slingshots.

In the Eyes of the Animal, created by Marshmallow Laser Feast, is a new virtual-reality experience that lets viewers see and explore nature as animals do. Created using a combination of 360-degree aerial filming, photogrammetry, and CT scans—along with a binaural soundtrack using audio recordings sourced from the surrounding woodland—the video offers a unique perspective of England’s Grizedale Forest and its local animal and insect inhabitants.

Eli Horowitz is a writer, designer, editor, and previous publisher of McSweeney’s. His digital novel, The Silent History, won the Webby Awards in 2012, and his most recent project, The Pickle Index, was showcased at this this year’s FoST summit in the Story Arcade. The novel, set in a society where all citizens must participate in a pickle-centric recipe exchange, exists in three simultaneous stand-alone editions: an app, an interactive hardcover set, and a paperback published by FSG.